


Comfort

by thatwritertype



Category: BBC Sherlock, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock - Fandom, Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Episode: s02e02 The Hounds of Baskerville, First Kiss, Fluff, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Friends to Lovers, Johnlock - Freeform, Johnlock Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-28
Updated: 2013-10-28
Packaged: 2017-12-30 16:56:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1021134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thatwritertype/pseuds/thatwritertype
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just your standard, post-Baskerville nightmare fic. This is my first post on Ao3 and constructive feedback is 100% appreciated!</p><p>I own nothing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Comfort

The ride back to the bed and breakfast had been awkward to say the least. After giving their statements to the local police force and getting Henry settled in the hospital where he would be treated for shock, Sherlock and John had silently made their way back to the inn. John had sat stoically in the passenger seat, his eyes fixed on the dark landscape outside. Sherlock glanced nervously between his flatmate and the road, unsure whether John’s quietness was a result of simple exhaustion or a side effect of the drug or, perhaps, anger at Sherlock. But when they reached their small room with the twin beds, John locked the door behind them and turned to give Sherlock a weary smile.  
“I’m for bed,” he muttered, gathering his toiletries. “It’s been a hell of a day.”  
Sherlock nodded, smiling to himself as he lay back on his bed. The case was wrapped up to his satisfaction: it had been thrilling, challenging, and fun, and he had gotten to witness John’s fierce protectiveness once more. Other than the unattractive, emotional business in front of the fire in the dining room, the last few days had been perfect. He listened to the sounds of John’s nighttime routine—amazing how consistent he was, following his schedule even after a trying chase or a day like today. Sherlock closed his eyes and let himself relax. This was comfortable…this was like home…  
When Sherlock jolted into awareness, the room was dark and his heart was pounding. There were small, sad snuffling sounds coming from his left—John’s bed. Sherlock got up, stumbling on the covers—had John tucked him in after he’d fallen asleep?—and glanced around the room for any furry, red-eyed before leaning over John. At that moment, John let out a low sob and shifted, pressing his face into the pillow beneath him.  
Sherlock flipped the bedside lamp on and threw the covers off of John, scanning his stiff, trembling body for injuries. None. Of course not. That would be ridiculous. Even so…thank God. John began muttering under his breath, something about needing morphine.  
Sherlock reached out, pressing his hands to John’s shoulders in the most soothing way he could. “John! John, you’re having a nightmare. You’re in Dartmoor with me. You’re safe, John,” he said sharply, giving John a little shake.  
To his relief, John stirred and shifted under his hands. Sherlock withdrew and settled back onto the edge of the bed as John sat up and buried his face in his hands, still shaking.  
Sherlock stood and scuttled into the bathroom and filled one of the heavy mugs with water. When he re-entered the bedroom, John had settled himself back against the headboard and was staring at the ceiling. He seemed to be focusing on taking deep, rhythmic breaths and had his eyes closed, the tension in his clenched hands giving away his remaining anxiety. Sherlock stood in the half-dark, not wanting to disturb John’s privacy in his vulnerable moment.  
Even when scared and out of control, John was lovely. His hair was mussed and his cheeks were flushed, and with his head tipped back like that Sherlock could just imagine John’s throat exposed for a different reason, low moans being emitted instead of anxious pants, his fingers not clenching each other but twined instead in Sherlock’s hair…  
John looked up, blinking, and smiled wryly at Sherlock. He took a sip of the offered water and shuffled over in the bed, raising an eyebrow until Sherlock perched on the edge.  
“I’m sorry I woke you,” he said softly.  
“I wasn’t asleep,” Sherlock replied smoothly.  
John, as always, saw right through him and smirked. “Well, I’m sorry I disturbed whatever important thinking you were doing.”  
“It wasn’t important.”  
“Yeah, I’m sure.”  
Sherlock fiddled with a loose thread on the quilt, wondering whether his next question would be welcome. “How often do you have nightmares?”  
“Not so often anymore. Maybe three, four nights a week. Thought you would have noticed and made a chart or something.”  
“You’re quiet when you have them and you never let yourself fall asleep anywhere that’s not your own bed…” Sherlock trailed off, something suddenly occurring to him. He fixed his gaze on John and found that John was already looking back. “You never spent the night with your girlfriends—you always came home no matter the time. I don’t think that’s customary for people in relationships. I thought perhaps you were more interested in the sex but that’s very out of character for you.”  
John’s mouth twitched upwards. “No, I’m not that kind of bloke, and no, it’s not customary for one member of a couple to bail after sex. None of them—the women I dated, and they were all perfectly lovely people, no matter what you think—they didn’t appreciate waking up alone every morning. They didn’t understand why I didn’t stay because I kept the reason to myself. They all knew I had been in the Army but I let them think it wasn’t as…”  
“Dramatic?”  
“Ha, yeah, as dramatic or violent as it was. You really didn’t notice that I never spent the night with my girlfriends until just now?”  
Sherlock swallowed back the revulsion that came with the thought of John making love to one of his faceless women. “I have much more important things to focus on than your sex life, John, riveting though I’m sure it must be,” he replied, making his voice as prim and haughty as he could.  
John grinned as he took a sip of water and set the empty mug on the bedside table. Sherlock stood wordlessly and took the mug back into the bathroom along with his pajamas. When he returned, clad in his sleepwear, the light was off but he could still see the vague, soft outline of John against the headboard. Sherlock hesitated, wondering if he should go back to his own bed.  
“That’s not all, though.” John’s voice broke through the darkness. “I wasn’t just afraid of them seeing me like that.”  
He seemed as though he were struggling to continue, so Sherlock filled in the blank. “You were afraid you’d hurt them in your sleep. You were afraid that they wouldn’t be able to wake you and you’d lash out.”  
John’s swallow was audible. “Yeah.”  
“But you’re not violent. You were more scared than anything and you woke up when I called your name.”  
“No, but that doesn’t mean the possibility isn’t there. It’s common for PTSD patients to have flashbacks. They don't often hurt anyone, but that doesn't mean I'm not afraid that it could happen to me.”  
They were silent again for so long that Sherlock thought John might have fallen asleep. He climbed into his own bed and turned onto his side to face John when, suddenly, the other man spoke.  
“I’m sorry, Sherlock.”  
“What for?”  
“I, ah, I let you believe that you were the reason my dates weren’t working out.”  
“It’s fine. I certainly didn’t make any effort to endear myself to them.”  
“No, let me finish.” John cleared his throat. “It’s just that, in a roundabout way, you were part of the reason my dates never went anywhere. Or, rather, my feelings for you were.”  
Sherlock held his breath, his blood suddenly gone cold with shock.  
John was still speaking. “But I…if you don’t feel the same we can pretend this didn’t happen and you can delete it or whatever. I don’t even know why I’m telling you tonight of all nights, maybe because of the drug or the case or something, but we can go back to the way things were before and—”  
He stopped here with a gasp of surprise. Sherlock had thrown off his covers, jumped onto John’s bed and kissed him on the lips. The tension melted from the smaller man’s body as Sherlock slid his arms under John’s shoulders and gripped him close. He responded by slipping one hand up the nape of Sherlock’s neck to grip at his hair and wrapping the other around Sherlock’s waist.  
Very quickly Sherlock realized that he really didn’t know what he was doing. It had been years since someone had touched him like this—had really held him—and he was out of his depth. He could feel John smile against his mouth just before he took control, moving his lips so they slotted between Sherlock’s. He pressed slow, luxuriant kisses into Sherlock’s mouth, moving his fingers in dizzyingly gentle circles on Sherlock’s side, just underneath his ribs. He sucked Sherlock’s lower lip between his own to lap at it with his tongue and nibble at it gently.  
When John released him, Sherlock let out a heavy, sudden breath and pushed his face into the junction of John’s neck and shoulder and breathed in the smell of him. John shifted to nuzzle at Sherlock’s hair and press kisses to the top of his head. Sherlock whimpered slightly, clutching John closer.  
“Hey. Sherlock. Please talk to me. You okay?”  
Sherlock nodded, pushing his nose into John’s neck so hard he thought it might leave a bruise. His heart was throbbing and he could hear every blood cell rushing through his veins and every synapse firing and John was stroking his hands up and down Sherlock’s back and murmuring warm things into the space just above Sherlock’s ear.  
“I’ve got you, Sherlock, I’ve got you. Shhh, shhh, you’re okay. You’re fine, you’re lovely and God you mean so much to me—I can’t even tell you how much you mean to me but if you don’t—if you don’t want this or part of this or any of it it’s totally okay, it’s okay…”  
Sherlock lifted his head and stared at John. “Why on earth would you think I don’t want this—that I don’t want you?”  
John flushed just enough to be visible in the dark room. “Well, I—I just wanted to make sure you knew that so you didn’t feel pressured. And, you know, that first night at Angelo’s you said you weren’t looking for anything.”  
Sherlock sighed and flopped onto his back as far as he could on the narrow bed. John slid onto his side.  
“People change, John. When I said that, you hadn’t shot the cabbie. I didn’t know yet how extraordinary you are.”  
He opened his eyes to find that John’s own were wide in amazement. “Since that very first night?” he whispered.  
Sherlock swallowed, realizing what he’d just inadvertently revealed. John, as always, could read him like a book. Nothing else to be said, then, but—“yes.”  
John shifted forward and put his hand on Sherlock’s face, stroking his thumb along the cheekbone. He lightly kissed Sherlock’s lips and then the tip of his nose, his forehead, his chin, his jaw, and pressed their foreheads together as though they could meld that way. “Me, too,” he replied.  
They lay there once more, Sherlock feeling that it had never been so easy to simply breathe. He peered through the darkness at John, whose eyes were shut once more, but whose breathing hadn’t eased into the rhythm of sleep. Sherlock was overwhelmed with tenderness for the gentle, fierce man before him.  
“John,” he offered up into the darkness. John’s eyes opened and he gazed back at Sherlock.  
Sherlock leaned forward, gripped the smaller man’s hips and abruptly rolled onto his back, tugging John on top of him. He ran his hands over John’s waist and shoulders and arms as he pulled his friend into a fierce kiss and felt John gasp when his hands skimmed down to curve over John’s bum. John responded by licking hesitantly at Sherlock’s mouth, and the detective choked back a moan when John somehow managed to slip his tongue in between Sherlock’s lower lip and his gums to stroke along the sensitive flesh there. He gripped John’s arse and rolled his hips up to grind against the other man.  
John broke their kiss and rolled off Sherlock to kiss at his friend’s neck. “Sherlock,” he muttered, “I really, really want to do this”—he kissed the soft skin just behind Sherlock’s earlobe—“but I don’t have anything”—he kissed the outside of corner of Sherlock’s eye so lightly that Sherlock could feel his eyelashes bend just the tiniest bit under the pressure—“and”—here, he stopped and cupped Sherlock’s face with both hands, looking as deeply into his eyes as he could in the dark—“you know what? I don’t want our first time to be in a hotel room, after a nightmare, and after spending the evening drugged and hallucinating.”  
Sherlock nodded, gently knocking his forehead against John’s. He stretched up his neck and kissed John one more time before curling up under his chin and nibbling kisses into the stretch of collarbone exposed by the neck of his friend’s t-shirt. John stroked his hands up and down Sherlock’s back, kneading his hands into the dense patches of muscle he found. The ex-soldier exhaled heavily.  
“Sherlock, hey, I…please. I need you to go to the other bed.”  
Sherlock raised his head, momentarily panicked, before he realized the reason for John’s request. “You’re afraid you’ll have another nightmare and hurt me, aren’t you?”  
John nodded, his eyes squeezed shut. “That’s right. I need to get used to being close to another person first and you’re…the last person I want to hurt.”  
Sherlock slid out from under the covers and flipped on the lamp again. He pulled the bedside table out from its position between the two beds and then tugged the other twin bed a few inches closer to John’s before switching off the lamp and crawling under the covers. John smiled at him and stretched out his hand so that their fingers were linked.  
The two lay in silence for a long while, Sherlock savoring the steadiness of John’s breath and the warmth of the palm kissing his own. Finally he remembered something…  
“John?”  
“Hmmm?”  
“Did you tuck me in before you got into bed earlier?”  
“Hmm, yeah, I did.” Sherlock could hear the smile in his voice.  
“Why?”  
“You looked like you needed some comfort.”  
Sherlock squeezed his hand.


End file.
